


Not Ready to Wake Up

by objectlesson



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Denial, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, fantasties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Lance considers it for a moment, what it might take to request that Walternotdick himself down with his giant glittery purple dildo while he’s living here. However, it somehow sitsweirderto imagine enforcing that boundary than just turning a blind eye to whatever happens in this room. He sighs, thumbing at the bridge of his nose in resignation . “Nah, it’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t have evenknownif the box didn’t break, so—you do you, man. Just. Do youquietly.I better not hear any suspicious sounds coming from under the door in the middle of the night, ok?”Walter grins, crooked incisor flashing in a way that tugs peculiarly at Lance’s insides. “Don’t worry. I can be quiet.”And Lance really wishes those words would quit resounding on a loop in his head like a heartbeat.Or, Lance sees Walter's dildo and can't stop thinking about it.
Relationships: Walter Beckett/Lance Sterling
Comments: 89
Kudos: 968





	Not Ready to Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmm I wrote big portions of this in a car with no sleep and it might make not sense, sorry!!!

Lance sees it for the first time as they’re moving boxes of of Walter’s belongings into the guest-room. 

He’s already hauled all the translucent plastic Target tubs in and stacked them beside the bed, now its just odd’s and ends: Lovey’s cage and a backpack full of her toys and food, boxes all taped shut with unicorn print duct-tape and carefully labeled because Walter is the sort of person who labels his things. Lance keeps thinking about that, how if _he_ were the one who’s home was destroyed by the agency, he’d end up just shoving everything into trash bags and his Italian Leather Dolce and Gabanna suitcase set to move, no labels, nothing. Just an expensive mess. 

He’s got a stack in his arms, half-inside the door frame when the weight gets to be too much for the bottom-most box. The single strip of tape holding together gives way, and suddenly the contents are collapsing out in a multi-color cascade onto the floor and, incidentally Lance’s legs. 

He curses, dumping the remainder of his armful of boxes onto the ground before bending to start picking up whatever dropped. That is, _until_ he realizes what it all _is._

 _Apparently,_ Walter Beckett has a _box full of sex toys._ Or, a box full of sheets where he carefully and surreptitiously _hid_ his sex toys. And said box just exploded all over Lance’s _house._ And _body,_ which, frankly, is much much worse. Horrified _,_ he yelps, tossing the dilapidated wreck of cardboard that _once_ was the box that housed _a collection of oddly shaped dildos_ and other things he doesn’t even _recognize_ onto the guest bed, which is soon to be Walter’s bed. “What the _fuck,”_ Lance barks, backing himself against the wall and pointing as the grisly technicolor disaster on his carpet. “What the _fuck,_ Walter. Boy. Get your ass in here.” 

Walter’s there in a second, scrambling with wide eyes. “What? Is everything— _Oh,”_ he mumbles, face falling as his gaze sweeps over the carnage. “Damn. Of all the boxes to break… “

Lance really doesn’t want to be staring, but he is. There’s just…so much to stare at. Plugs. Lots of those. Some are glass, some are not, one is bejeweled and one has a base meant to look like a candy heart. Then there’s bottle of personal lubricant, which makes sense. But, most astounding at all, a _very large,_ very _purple,_ very _glittery,_ but otherwise very _realistic,_ dildo _._ Lance zeros in on it, eyes volleying back and forth between Walter, who is frozen in the doorway with his eyebrows arched into comical parabolas, and the giant dick on the floor. “Is that _yours?”_ he blurts, as if Walter might, for some fucking reason, be babysitting another guy’s giant fake dick. 

“Yes,” Walter squeaks, finally coming to his senses enough he drops to his knees, gathering the toys and hastily wrapping them up into the sheets. His cheeks are two very violent flashes of red, made hazy through the weird fog that’s fallen over Lance’s vision as he stares. There, on his floor, Walter looks very small. He’s not particularly short, probably just under average at 5’7 or 8, but he’s _extremely_ thin, and his ass, which Lance has never thought about once until this moment, is nothing but a pert, round handful. Lance could cover it with one hand, if he reached out and cupped it. “I’m sorry. I—I obviously didn’t mean for you to see it.” 

The dildo is officially stuffed inside a pillow-case, but Lance _cannot_ unsee it. The image is burnt into his retinas. The sheer absurdity of it, the impressive length, the _girth._ It’s about the same size as him, maybe a little bigger and more…rubbery. Before he can even _think_ of whether or not this is an appropriate question to throw at his soon-to-be roommate, he blurts, “Jesus, kid how—how does that even _fit_ in you?” because for some reason, _that’s all he can think about right now._ Walter’s skinny ass and that massive thing. He hates himself for saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he doesn’t _actually_ want to know _._ But apparentlyhis morbid curiosity regarding the absolute massive scale of that dildo compared to Walter’s _very_ slender frame—it’s beyond his control. It bubbles out of him like he’s been hit with a truth serum. Maybe he _has._ Walter’s always got weird, terrifying gadgets stuffed in his pockets, maybe they’re stuffed in his sex toys, too. 

Tragically, Walter does not take the question as a rhetorical one. He shrugs, looks up at Lance from the floor, blue eyes flashing like seagrass half buried in beach sand. “Um, with lots of patience? And lots of lube.” 

Lance covers his very hot face with a spread palm, scrunching his eyes shut at the unbidden multitude of graphic images suddenly flooding his brain. “Ok, I didn’t need to know that.” 

“Sorry!” Walter yelps. “To be fair, you _asked._ ” 

The images won’t go away, and suddenly, the fact these objects are getting transported _into his own guest room_ hits Lance like sucker punch. He drops his hands, staring at Walter . “Are you…are you planning on _jacking off_ in my _house?”_

Walter winces. “I mean, I wasn’t _planning_ to, like it wasn’t some weird, premeditated masterplan. I just. If _you_ were going to live indefinitely somewhere while you shopped for apartments, wouldn’t you bring your…I dunno. Your stuff?” he asks, wincing , looking at Lance through one narrowed eye like he might throw him a bone. 

Lance’s mind is racing, his pulse is pounding. His whole heart is shoved up into his throat so tight he can hardly breathe, all because he and Walter are discussing masturbation techniques like they would discuss grocery shopping or house chores or any other sharing living space thing. It’s surreal. It’s got him fucked up. “What, my _hand?_ I’m low maintenance and _normal!_ I don’t have ten butt-plugs!” 

“Ok, but say you did! Like, you had an, um, I dunno, a flesh light?” Walter asks hopefully, demonstrating his uncanny ability make _Lance_ feel _aberrant_ for being _straight._ Or any least straight enough to not have to wonder too much about this sort of thing. He’s sputtering now, gut twisting up at the words _flesh light_ because he never in his _life_ thought he’d witness Walter Fucking Beckett _saying_ them. This is _Walter._ Glitter and pigeons Walter, and Lance wouldn’t have even bet on him _knowing what a flesh light was_ if he’d been asked to join a pool ten minutes ago.Walter is blushing uncomfortably again, And Lance turns away because the innocent blue of those eyes feels like a betrayal, now, and it’s his stomach swoop. “You’d bring it, right?” Walter tacks on. 

“Maybe…maybe. Maybe I’d jack off in a homie’s house if I was _living_ there,” Lance admits after a moment, kneading his temples, noticing his hands are _actually_ trembling. He still can’t believe any of this is happening _._ That Walter has a giant dildo and that giant dildo _fell out of a box_ and _touched his nice slacks_ and _bounced off his carpet_ and that they’re _talking_ aboutit now. That Walter is, presumably, going to _use_ that giant dildo _in his home._ He wants to be mad, or grossed out, but he’s too overwhelmed by his former assumptions that Walter was some sort of prude being so violently _shattered_ to feel anything but stunned waves of shock and embarrassment. 

_“_ I won’t if it freaks you out,” Walter says, teeth on his lip while he looks up at Lance earnestly. “I really wasn’t thinking about it, I just—I packed all my stuff and came over here when you offered to put me up. It didn’t really cross my mind you might be freaked out but I totally get it. I can hold off until I’m in my own space if you want.” 

Lance considers it for a moment, what it might take to request that Walter _not_ dick himself down with his giant glittery purple dildo while he’s living here. However, it somehow sits _weirder_ to imagine enforcing that boundary than just turning a blind eye to whatever happens in this room. He sighs, thumbing at the bridge of his nose in resignation . “Nah, it’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t have even _known_ if the box didn’t break, so—you do you, man. Just. Do you _quietly._ I better not hear any suspicious sounds coming from under the door in the middle of the night, ok?” 

Walter grins, crooked incisor flashing in a way that tugs peculiarly at Lance’s insides. “Don’t worry. I can be quiet.” 

And Lance really wishes those words would quit resounding on a loop in his head like a heartbeat. 

—-

Living With Walter is surprisingly easy _._ He’s actually a really good roommate. He keeps his bathroom and bedroom meticulously clean, and orders these ridiculous looking pigeon diapers off of etsy so Lovey can fly around unsupervised without shitting all over everything, since bird shit was one of Lance’s main fears regarding Walter as a room mate. He also _loves_ Lance’s cooking and eats six plates of everything (which is _remarkable,_ Lance doesn’t even know where it _goes_ on such a skinny kid). Lance loves to cook but he hardly ever has the energy to do it, mostly because of the toll big meals take on his kitchen, but Walter is always really eager to help, which cuts the work load in two. He preps things, chopping whatever ingredients Lance leaves out, and then after they’ve eaten and the sink is stacked high with crusted pans and cutting boards and every single one of Lance’s knives, he pours himself a glass of sparkling wine and washes everything, humming along with K-pop, scrubbing until his fingers are pruney and there’s foam clinging to the rolled up sleeves of his hoodie. Lance usually watches him, leaning against the counter smiling reflexively, drying dishes, noticing the way Walter’s cheeks get pink from even the weakest, sweetest wine. 

He thought it might be a hassle, having another body in his space after so many years of willfully, happily living alone. But instead, it makes him realize how _nice_ it is, having someone else around to clean up and wipe down the stove and grab toilet paper out on errand runs. Plus, Walter is _chill_ about things Lance never anticipated being chill about. He likes to watch Disney movies and his K-dramas at night, and _at first_ Lance just humored him, but then he got sucked in too, and honestly it’s a better way to spend his evenings, cuddled up against Walter on the couch with a bowl of popcorn instead of downstairs in his mini-gym on the treadmill, counting miles and answering work emails. Lance didn’t even realize how bad it was at winding down at night, and Walter forces him to take down-time he wouldn’t otherwise take, and he’s realizing it makes him sleep better.

Everything would be great, really, if it weren’t for the irritating prickle of discomfort in his chest when he thinks about their arrangement for too long. 

The thing is, Lance tries _really hard_ to forget about the dildo, but he just _can’t._ It’ll just pop up in his head sometimes when he’s least expecting it, on the freeway on his way to work _with_ Walter in the passenger side hammering away on his phone, totally oblivious. In the shower, when he’s soaping up the crack of his own ass and his fingers will nudge against the tightly furled muscle of his hole and he’ll _remember,_ clear as day, Walter saying _with lots of patience and lots of lube_ like patience and lube are the sorts of things that trump _physics._ But most of all, he thinks about it when he’s about to fall asleep in his bed wondering about Walter in the guest-bedroom down the hall. 

He thinks about Walter fucking himself. He _wonders,_ actively, if Walter _is_ fucking himself, in that moment. Sometimes he even pauses to listen, heart thudding in his chest, cheeks burning at the potential. 

It usually happens late at night, when Walter’s bedroom light is still on, pale gold spilling out from the crack under the door. If he’s in there tinkering with his chemistry set he usually has Lovey out, and Lance can almost always hear the squeaky sound of her wings as she flutters from . But if it’s _silent,_ and it means Walter put her into her cage and covered it so she can sleep, but _before_ he went to bed. And Lance—he just _wonders,_ what he’s doing. And if he wonders, he pictures it. And if he pictures it, he can’t _stop_ picturing it. 

Honestly, it’s an irritating affliction. He doesn’t _want_ to imagine Walter slicking up all that purple silicone and pushing it in inch by inch, but the image lodges itself violently in his mind and plays invasively behind his eyelids, and before he knows it he’s got a full-blown Walter Beckett porno streaming in his brain, and its _oddly,_ horribly compelling. 

The thing is, he really never thought about Walter having sex before this. He distantly knew he was gay, but he seemed too young and too nerdy and too—foreign, somehow, like a different species, for Lance to imagine what he got up to behind closed doors, _if_ he was getting up to things at all. He just didn’t see him as a sexual being, and now that he knows he _is_ one, he’s got all sorts of questions. Like, what does a baby-faced pretty boy like that _look_ like fucking? Does he moan, or bite his lip to stop himself? Does he get flushed? Does his hair get wet with sweat? Does it _hurt_ to have something so big inside him, stretching him like that? If it does, does he _like_ pain _?_ And Lance _hates_ that these things pop into his head, he _hates_ that he spends any time wondering about the finer details of Walter’s masturbation habits, but there's something almost paradoxical about the idea of someone like him, so _clean_ and sweet with his pale skin and baby blues, _getting dirty,_ and no matter how hard he tries he just _can’t_ let it go. 

It reminds Lance of his first serious crush in high school, Callie Clairborn, who was very blonde and very Christian and very much the perfect picture of your quintessential girl next door. Lance hardly _noticed_ her until it got out she gave Tommy on the football team a blow job behind the bleachers and just likethat, he was _obsessed_ with her. It was the _juxtaposition_ , the knowledge that someone he thought was somehow _better_ than him, _cleaner_ than him, immaculate and pretty and graceful, was actually just a horny kid like the rest of them. So, knowing _Walter_ fucks, that Walter has _needs,_ that Walter presumably pushes a plug into his ass before he beats one out—-it’s the sort of crass, base humanity Lance can relate to. It levels the playing field, and Walter _stops_ feeling untouchably _other_. He stops feeling like a different species. 

Lance doesn’t know why that keeps him up at night with a stomach full of knots and fire, but it _does._

_—-_

Sometimes he’s lucky enough to forget about Walter’s sex toy collection for a few days, but something always inevitably shoves it back into the forefront of his consciousness, and then he’s back to square one. Stubbornly stomping out of bed to take a cold shower because he _refuses_ to get weird, by-proxy boners from imagining how much Walter _clearly_ likes things in his ass. (It was so many butt plugs! And the one, with the fake diamond, how would that even _look?_ Just something shiny nestled up there between his pale little cheeks? Does the candy heart one _say_ anything, like _Hot Stuff_ or _Be Mine_ or _Call Me_? Does he take pictures of himself wearing them for dudes on Grindr, or does he just have so many because _he_ likes to feel pretty, for himself? And, most troubling of all, why does Lance _care?_ ) 

Lance can mostly push it down and silence it until one particularly traumatizing incident in the middle of a lazy Saturday when they’ve been doing _nothing_ but watching movies and lounging around in PJs since they woke up. Mid _Mulan_ , Walter excuses himself and disappears into his room. Lance initially doesn’t think much of it; he assumes he’s changing into real clothes or getting a snack, so he just pauses the movie and messes around on his phone. But then, Walter _doesn’t come back._ He’s gone for nearly half an hour, Lance _knows_ because he starts to periodically check the clock, minutes ticking away increasingly _slowly_ the more anxious he gets, the more he thinks about it. The house is too quiet, quiet enough he might be able to hear the bed squeaking if that’s what’s _happening,_ so in a panic he turns on some music, trying his very hardest not to think about Walter pulling his draw-string flannel PJ pants and boxer briefs down over the curve of his ass while he lies on _Lance’s guest bed,_ pulling his cheeks apart to rub at his hole, getting it lube-slick before he slides one of those plugs in. _Be Mine. Hot Stuff. Call me._ Lance turns up his music, sweating. 

_Finally_ Walter reemerges after entirely too much time, eyes a little hazy and cheeks a little red and skin dewy with a new, scrubbed clean look. His hair is damp, so _maybe_ he showered, but he’s usually pretty quick with those so it hardly makes sense. Lance’s heart is pounding out of his chest, throat tight as he forces out, “Boy! What took you so long?!” 

“Showering,” Walter says easily. He tries to look nonchalant, but he is not a very convincing liar, so Lance notices the sheen of guilt darkening his gaze and he just—he _knows._ He knows that Walter was fucking himself, or jacking off at _least_ , taking a break in the middle of their chill Saturday together to sneak off and stuff something up his ass. Lance feels hot all over, sweating so suddenly in the ditches of his elbows, the backs of his knees. So this—this is what Walter looks like after he gets fucked: Soft and little sleepy and sort of shiny and glowy, like he’s just felt something really good, or woken up from a nice nap. The knowledge makes Lance’s stomach plummet in a dirty lurch, because this is the sort of thing you should only know about your boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever. He feels like he’s invading, like he’s stared so hard at something he wasn’t supposed to and now he knows _too_ _much_. 

“Yeah? Well. It was a _long_ shower,” Lance finally says, the words sticking in his throat. 

Walter’s shrug is an anxious, exaggerated version of his usual shrug, which makes Lance think that he _knows_ he knows, which just twists his insides up even more violently. “It’s Saturday! I wanted it to be leisurely. I don't know.” 

“Well. _I_ pay the water bill, remember?” Lance reminds him, trying to keep his voice even, flat, non confrontational. 

“I’ll venmo you some cash,” Walter adds lightly, chewing the inside of his cheek, and _fuck,_ his eyes are so blue, his lips are so red. Lance thinks of glittery purple disappearing into a slick clutch of pink, and feels like he’s going crazy. 

He wonders, very briefly, if Walter really _did_ just shower, and he’s being needlessly paranoid. If the dildo has seriously gone to his head and he's _imagining_ things, projecting sex into places it doesn't belong. Like, by now Lance _knows_ by that Walter’s not innocent. He makes sex jokes, he mentions actors he thinks are hot, he’s alluded to an ex he _clearly_ had something at least semi-serious with. He’s not _trying_ to hide his sexuality from Lance, it’s not a _secret_ he fucks. But Lance can’t seem to get over that, no matter how badly he wishes he could. He _wants_ to believe Walter just took a long shower, but he _can’t,_ because he can _tell._ He can _smell_ it on him, or something. And what really sucks about it is that he’s _genuinely_ unsure if that’s because he's paying too much attention, or if Walter is being like—-obvious. Flagrant. 

He studies Walter, and decides the whole thing is probably just in his head, but it doesn’t _matter._ Because it makes him hot faced and half-hard to think about all the same. 

—-

As he often does when he feels something he does not understand, Lance decides he’s just gonna stuff it down and ignore it. This works out nicely since the agency is sending him away on a weekend business trip to test out some of Walter’s latest inventions in the field. Walter _begged_ to go so he could observe, but he was needed too badly at headquarters so it’s just Lance. He’s looking forward to getting _away,_ getting his head back on his shoulders without having to wonder what his roommate is doing once the lights go out.

“You can use my shower while m’gone,” he tells Walter, saluting him as he hauls his luggage out the door. “Since you’re so into luxurious showers lately.” 

Walter blushes at that and offers a feeble goodbye, and Lance wonders why in the fuck it made his stomach drop so hard to get that confirmation the shower incident was exactly what he thought it was. 

On his flight, he decides It’ll be _refreshing_ to spend some time in a hotel suite away from Walter. Crisp white sheets, complimentary champagne, room service. Maybe even a Tinder date, for good measure. It’s been forever since Lance got laid, and he hasn’t gone out with a girl _once_ since he got fired and rehired, and he’s starting to wonder if his obsession with Walter’s dildo has to do with some weird, misplaced, pent up tension. 

Once he’s inBelize working, though, he just can’t bring himself to do it. It seems too tiring, too much _energy_ to actually go through the motions of finding someone, charming her, paying for her dinner. Instead he sits on the balcony of his hotel room in a plush white robe watching the shape birds cut across the sunset as they flutter above the city, until night falls and he can’t see them anymore. Spanish sitcoms keep him company while he drinks too many Mai Tais, and eventually he finds himself wondering what Walter is doing. He realizes he’s probably still at work because of the time difference, and then he ends up imagining what he would be doing if he were _here_ , and they were together. If he’d be able to tell if the birds were run of the mill, garden variety pigeons or some special Caribbean equivalent, if he’d know how to use this stupid fancy TV and put the subtitles on so Lance could actually follow along with this stupid plot. If he’d cry at the telenovelas, or if that’s something he reserves for his K-Dramas. 

Lance doesn’t like how much he misses Walter, so eventually, he takes some melatonin on tip of his booze and falls into unsettled, dreamless sleep. 

He’s jet lagged when he comes home on Monday, relieved to have gotten in before Walter is off work so he can fucking _shower_ the plane off of him and settle in before he has to be social. At the same time he’s anxious to _see_ Walter, a tight bubble of impatience expanding in his chest with each subsequent hour away. He hadn’t really _realized_ how reliant he’d gotten on his company, how incredibly _lonely_ being on his own feels now that he lives with him. Before, Lance really fucking _enjoyed_ his alone time, but how he spends it all _thinking about Walter,_ so what’s even the point? He shakes his head, wishing he was capable of thinking about _literally anything else_ besides his fucking room mate. 

He pushes in the door and heads straight to his bathroom, loosening his tie and hanging up his suit jacket on the way, sucking in the familiar scent of his house, which he’s only _just_ realizing has changed along with him: he can smell Walter now _too_ , the hypoallergenic laundry detergent he uses because of his sensitive skin, the sweet, honeyed notes of the cupcake Yankee Candle he has in his room, his hair product which reminds Lance of Fruit Loops. 

Lance is too tired to stop himself from being distinctly comforted by the evidence Walter lives with him, takes up space, fills vacancies. He just peels his clothes off, kicks them into his laundry hamper, and throws open the door of his shower. 

And there, stuck to the streaky glass side of it, is avery _large,_ very _purple,_ very _glittery,_ butotherwisevery _realistic,_ dildo. 

He physically feels his heart fall out of his ass as he stares. 

There it is. This thing he’s been actively imagining for _months,_ suction-cupped to the wall. This thing that’s been _inside of Walter’s ass,_ presumably while Walter was _inside his shower._ It’s so very much to process Lance actually stumbles backwards, hand splayed over his heart like he’s been shot. 

In that moment, he hears Walter’s key in the door, and his heart fucking stops. He tugs down a towel from the rack (not without wondering if Walter used _this_ too or if he brought his own towel like a normal person,) and tucks it around his waist before grabbing a fistful of toilet paper, which he carefully wraps around his hand so he has a barrier. And then, protected by layers of Charmin, he pulls Walter’s dildo off the glass with a satisfying _pop._

Then, he storms into the living room. 

Walter’s face lights up when he sees him, the blue of his eyes flashing sunshine-bright like a sunny summer day, and that twists so fiercely in Lance’s gut he almost loses his nerve. “Hey!” Walter says, hauling his backpack onto the couch, sending Lovey flapping around the room chaotically as she’s startled from her mid-afternoon nap. “You’re back! I thought maybe the traffic would be so shitty you wouldn’t make it until after dark, I’m stoked you’re here. Missed you, I’m pathetic,” he announces, stepping in for a hug even though Lance is in nothing but a towel and brandishing a sex toy like a weapon. 

And Walter looks so—so _real_ somehow. More real than Lance remembers, with his crooked smile and messy red-brown hair sticking up in myriad of cowlicks, the pale freckles which you can really only see if you’re looking for them and Lance supposes that means he looks. He’s not close enough right now to make them out, but he _knows_ they’re there and that sort of… feels like a revelation, somehow. His grip tightens defensively on the dildo, toilet paper bunching under his palm. He raises it, shoving it between him and Walter to stop him in his tracks before he gets any closer, before he can _see_ those freckles. “When I said use my fancy shower, this was _not_ what I meant! C’mon, kid.” 

Walter takes a moment to focus, but as soon as he realizes what Lance is holding, dread falls over his face like a heavy stage curtain, sudden and red. He flushes deeply, eyes darkening in panic. “Oh my god, fuck. Lance I’m _so_ sorry.” 

“Now I _know_ I said do you! I said that! But you really gotta fuck yourself _in my shower?_ The guest room wasn't good enough for you?” Lance spits out, pushing the dildo into Walter’s hand. Their skin brushes during the exchange, which makes an electric sensation jolt up his spine, but it’s better than having Walter’s lingering _ass molecules_ so close to his bare fingers, he thinks. 

“Ummm ok admittedly that sounds _way_ worse when you say it out loud. I—it’s just that your shower is _glass_ and mine is _tile_ and it’s really hard to suction it to the—”

“TMI!” Lance shouts, trying his hardest to force out the image of Walter backing his ass up onto the dildo while the glass steamed up around him, his gasping mouth, his big hands and slender fingers spread wide and desperate on the opposite wall. “Now I’m picturing it!” he accuses, like it’s somehow Walter’s fault he has this _problem._

Walter hides his very red face. “I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m the worst roommate, I know, but we—we don’t have to ever talk about it again, I won’t _do_ it again, I’ll—I’ll totally just _not_ fuck myself _at all_ or even jack off until I have my own place, ok? Just please don’t kick me out,” he pleads. 

Lance shakes his head. He—he wasn’t even _thinking_ about asking Walter to leave, it never even crossed his mind _._ In fact, he had no idea what he expected to come of this confrontation. He’s not even sure he’s actually _angry_ at Walter, or disgusted, regardless of whether or not he should be. He’s just—he’s overwhelmed, he’s burning up, he—he wants Walter to _fix_ this somehow, to fix _him._ He wants a break, but he misses Walter when they’re apart, and he doesn’t know what any of his means, really, so he just scrubs his palms roughly over his stubbled cheeks and turns away. “I’m not kicking you out and you don’t have to be _abstinent,_ jesus. Just. Just give me some space, ok?” he grumbles, stomping back off to his room. “I need a shower. Too bad my whole bathroom is _contaminated_ now, “ he barks over his shoulder, which he immediately regrets because he doesn’t want Walter to think he sees him as dirty because he's gay, but also because he _definitely_ doesn’t want to see Walter holding his own fucking dildo. He doesn’t need anymore fuel for _that_ fire. 

He also doesn’t really _feel_ that way. The thought of Walter making himself come in his shower forces him to feel a lot of things, a whole messy war of emotion and confusion and overwhelm, but it doesn’t make him feel _contaminated._ Just—-invaded. Crowded out of his own bathroom, his own house, his own formerly secure self-concept. 

_Fuck_ he thinks, chewing the slick inside of his cheek so fiercely he eventually tastes the faint metallic bite of copper, mouth stinging as he turns on water hot enough to burn. 

—-

Lance realizes, as he stands under the spray, that he wanted to confront Walter because he wanted _closure_ about this. He wanted to package it up neatly and never think about it again. But he really should have fucking _known_ it would inevitably be all he could think about. 

Walter flushes so easily, and he takes hot showers. Lance knows because he sees the plumes of steam which spill out into the hallway when he opens the bathroom door, he sees the flush of his skin, not just his cheeks but his arms, his shoulders, his narrow chest. So, presumably when he was _in here,_ the water was this hot. He was probably red all over, bent in half, riding that huge purple thing with his back arched, his skin shining and slick.

Did he get dizzy? Was he panting? Did he _think_ about Lance, that this was _his_ shower, where _he’s_ naked every morning before work? Or was it incidental? 

It’s the first time Lance has really considered the possibility Walter thinks about _him_ , thinks about his space. _Their_ space that they share. It’s the first time Lance has concretely wondered if there’s a _reason_ Walter brought a dildo to _his_ house. To _his_ shower. 

It makes him hard to consider. And not the idle, consequential half-boner he’s gotten in the past when he invasively and uncontrollably thinks about Walter fucking himself two rooms away. An honest to god _real_ boner. His cock twitching and thickening as he soaps it up, gasping, mind flooded with images of Walter _right here,_ wet skin, wrist arched to hold the rubber dick in place as he sinks back onto it, eyes closed, mouth open, wide enough to suck two of three fingers if Lance were to push them past the soft ring of his lips. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be touching himself thinking about Walter touching _himself_ , but at the same time, he almost feels like he’s _owed_ this. That he's done so _well,_ held off for so _long,_ forced these images to the recesses of his mind as best he could without making it _weird,_ but _Walter_ went and fucked it all up. _Walter_ came into his shower, _Walter_ left his toy here. _Walter_ changed the terms of this unspoken agreement, and Lance is just _reacting_ to the invasion. He’s human. It’s not his fault. 

So, he just lets himself think about it, in a way he never really has before. He lets himself imagine the sounds Walter might make, soft moans and gasps, hushed curses as he winces, stutters, stills to adjust to the feeling of being split. He lets himself imagine what his skin might feel like under the splay of his own palms, slippery beneath the torrent of the shower, pinkened with heat. He lets himself imagine the insane, clutching heat of his insides. 

He’s never fucked a girl in the ass but he’s pushed a curious finger up there before, he _knows_ the ways in which it’s different, and he’s thinking about it now, not just how Walter feels when he’s fucking himself, but what it might feel like to fuck _him_. And Lance realizes as he tugs his cock to finish in a white splatter on fogged up glass with his mouth hanging open and his stomach in knots, that he’s come so _close_ to going this far before. It’s been residing inside him, hidden behind red-herrings and distractions and denial, lurking in the shadows. Some part of him _wants_ Walter. Has wanted him, as long as he’s lived here, maybe even before. He just _fixated_ on the dildo as a distraction, so he wouldn’t have to stand where he’s standing: panting in his shower, cock in his hand, heart in his throat. Whole _body_ still shivering in the aftershocks of pleasure, slowly coming to, sinking deeper and deeper into the harsh vice of shame. 

_Oh no_ he thinks, blinking as reality filters in through the hazy cracks of static post-orgasm, seeping back into his body like poison. He lets go of himself and and wipes his hand on his thigh, feeling _awful_ for what he’s just done, how wildly inappropriate it is, what a _line_ he’s crossed. _Oh no._

He steps out of the shower and shakily dries himself off, stuck in a shitty loop of self-recrimination. He’s managed to hide from this so long, but now that he’s been forced to come to terms with it, every _second_ of the last few months seems so painfully obvious he feels like he’s gonna be sick. He has _feelings_ for Walter. _That’s_ why he misses him when he’s out of town. _That’s_ why he’s not actually angry he jacked off in his shower. That’s why he’s such a _mess._

It sits with him strangely: this thing he’s known without really _knowing._ The ugly, embarrassing truth. He stands there for a few moments, alone in his tile bathroom inhaling steam, breath coming in long, labored inhalations. 

Lance knows what he needs to do. He can’t _live_ like this, he can’t live _with_ Walter anymore. He needs to help him get into an apartment as soon as possible and keep his distance until then because it’s _one_ thing to harbor a perverse, embarrassing curiosity regarding your roommate’s masturbation habits, but it’s another thing _entirely_ to make yourself come imagining them. Lance might have been toeing the line before, but he's certainly stepped over it now. And the only decent thing to do is protect himself, protect them _both._

So _,_ he resolutely pulls on some sweats and one of his white fruit of the loom V-necks, and leaves his room still damp and to find Walter and come clean. 

—-

He’s in his room, and Lance takes a few breaths outside his door before he raps his knuckles against it, feeling like a bumbling _dad_ about to apologize for yelling at his kid. That’s a terrible comparison, makes him feel all the _dirtier_ for the shit he’s hiding, so he stifles it like squashing out a flame. “Hey, Walter. Open up, yeah? We gotta talk.” 

Wincing as the words leave his mouth, he flexes his hand in the air, already sweating with anxiety. He feels so _dirty,_ so _old._ He _likes Walter,_ maybe even loves him like some fucking schoolboy, except he’s _not_ in school, he’s _thirty nine._ He’ll be forty next year, and he has some weird, messy, out of control crush on his much younger and _actually gay_ roommate. Walter is gonna be _so freaked out._ Best case scenario he’s just sees Lance as some annoying, embarrassing, old-man tourist figuring his shit out way too late in life, instead of feeling _actually_ grossed out, or violated. Lance can only hope. 

“It’s unlocked,” Walter mumbles from the other side, and he guesses that’s his cue to let himself in. To _have_ this fucking conversation, admit _he’s_ the one who’s been hiding something the whole time. 

Inside, Walter is curled up on the bed in his PJs with what looks like an 80s science textbook, Lovey perched on the headboard. He glances up guiltily, blushes without Lance even _saying_ anything. “You’re mad at me,” he says automatically. 

It breaks Lance’s heart a little bit, tightens in his chest like a clenched fist. “No,” he says, shaking his head and crossing his arms. “M’not mad at you. I just—I can’t live with you anymore.” 

Walter’s eyes turn a wild, hectic shade of too-blue, wet-looking and panicked. “No, _please_ don’t kick me out,” he begs. “I—I totally get it. The shower thing was way gross and violated so many boundaries and I’m _so_ sorry, but I promise it won’t happen again and I—I’ll move to the _garage_ if you need me too, but—”

“No, no. It’s—ugh. It’s actually not that,” Lance tells him, chest clenching up so tight it’s hard to _breathe._ He stares at the carpet and tongues the raw spot on the inside of his cheek, swallowing thickly before he admits, “It’s. It’s _me_. I can’t have you close to me, Walter, like this,” he explains, gesturing messily to his own guest room. The motion sends Lovey fluttering out into the hall in an affronted burst of wings, leaving them alone. He grits his teeth and continues, since Walter isn’t saying anything, just staring, wide-eyed and shocked. “It fucks with me, makes me think about stuff I shouldn’t be thinking about. Makes me curious about— things I shouldn't be curious about.”

It sits in the air, making Lance’s heart pound in how simultaneously obvious and obtuse it sounds. He’s confessed it all, at the same time he’s said essentially _nothing._

“What, like dildos?” Walter asks, face lighting up. “I can help you with that! If you want to buy some toys. Its normal, it doesn't make you gay or anything if you’re worried about that. Like, there are plenty that are not dick shaped if you’re not into dick. I’ve seen dolphin ones, or like unicorn horns—”

Lance makes a face, heart speeding up as they hurtle off track. “Walter,” he interrupts, sensation bubbling up in his throat well beyond his control. He’s _exhausted_ , he’s jet-lagged, he’s done _way_ too much introspection since he got home and without even _realizing_ it, he blurts, “I don’t want to _fuck a dolphin,_ I want to fuck you! And it’s messing with my head! And you—you shouldn’t have to _live_ with a guy who’s—who’s—“ and with that, he cuts off, dissolving into breathlessness, because _fuck,_ it’s all out on the table out. Every ugly corner of it 

Walter stares back, blinking. “What?” he asks then, like he didn’t _hear_ Lance right. And Lance sure as hell’s not gonna _repeat it,_ so he just swallows, and pushes on. 

“I’m sorry, it’s fucked up, I know. God—I didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t even want to admit it to _myself_ ,” he explains, eyes prickling up, throat thick. Walter is watching him, but he can’t make himself look, can’t make himself glance up and expose himself to whatever mess he’s making. “Having you around so much—it put ideas into my head or something. And then I saw that thing when you moved in and I just…started thinking about it. About you. So I guess _I’m_ the bad roommate. I’m the insensitive asshole who’s violating boundaries and who should sleep in the garage.” 

Walter actually _laughs_ a little, so choked and disbelieving it comes out as more of a cough. “You’ve thought about _me?”_ he says then, voice reedy, incredulous. 

Lance frowns. “I tried not to,” he finally decides on. 

Silence stretches on in agonizing moments. Lance finally risks a fleeting look at Walter, only to catch him deliberately, slowly dog-earing his page and setting his book down on the floor beside the bed. “Do you want to know the real reason I was fucking myself in your shower while you were gone?” he says eventually, voice a careful, tentative thing. 

It feels breakable, the whole _world_ does, but Lance manages to force out a clipped, “Yes?” 

Walter takes a deep, pained breath before he looks up, eyes pleading. “I was— _god._ I was imagining _you_ fucking me,” he mumbles in a rush, cheeks turning red, gaze darting down to his hands, which are nervously picking at a loose string on the bedspread. “I’ve wanted it for a stupid, _stupid_ long time, and living with you messed _me_ up too and I guess-I guess I got weird and bold and sloppy. I—I just sort of felt like I had to take whatever I could get because it was just a fantasy, you know? I never, ever thought in a million _years_ you’d think about me that way.” 

Lance’s mouth is dry, the blood is rushing in his ears as a deafening volume, his heart is pounding so hard in his ribcage he feels his very _bones_ aching with the reckless force. Walter _was_ thinking about him. Walter was in his shower, inhaling the smell of his sandalwood scented two-in-one body wash, fingering himself open on soap-slick fingers before backing himself up onto that dildo and he did it _because_ he was thinking about Lance. He’s dizzy with overwhelm, hands bloodless and numb as he clutches his own elbows, arms crossed defensively across his chest. 

“Well, I think about it,” he confesses. “I can’t _stop_ thinking about it.” 

Walter looks up, face a mask of tentative hope as their eyes lock, electricity crackling between them for the few loaded moments they regard each other. Lance doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know what _will_ happen. And most of all, he doesn’t know what he _wants_ to happen. He’s stuck here, suspended in time, pulse racing and throat tight and Walter spread out on a bed in front of him, Walter who _fucked himself thinking about him._ It’s too much, but he can’t speak. He can’t even _move._ All he can do is waver like a flame about to go out, or else ignite a whole city and reduce it to ash. 

Finally, Walter shifts back a bit so he’s on the edge of the bed closest to the wall, then tentatively pats the newly vacant spot beside himself. “Come here?” he asks. 

And Lance does _._

He moves automatically, mechanically across the carpet, hands shaking as he lowers himself onto the mattress beside Walter and reaches out, gripping his tiny hips in his hands, thinking all the while about how he could crush him to dust, how he doesn't know what he’s doing, how he doesn’t even _care_ because he cannot fucking stop himself now, he literally can’t. He drags Walter close, presses their foreheads together and exhales shakily, everything smelling like that fruit loop hair stuff and the salt and spice smell of boy and breath and it makes him so fucking dizzy to have his lungs full of this thing he’s tried so fucking hard to run away from, he feels like he’s falling apart. He wants to kiss Walter _so bad,_ he wants his sweat, his skin. But he’s also _terrified_ that if he does kiss him, he’ll hate it and everything will be ruined. He’s equally terrified that he’ll _love_ it and everything will be ruined. “Ok so,” he murmurs, staring at the careful flutter of Walter’s eyelids, counting his freckles because he can see every one, now. “Just fyi, I’ve never done anything with a guy before.” 

“That’s ok,” Walter whispers, spreading his hands over Lance’s chest, touch light and questioning. “I have.” He smoothes up to the skin of his neck, brushes his knuckles reverently over his thudding pulse, the stubble on his throat, then back down until his hand cover’s Lance’s, over his hip. Then he moves it boldly to his own ass, arching his back to fit himself into the wide, hot splay of needy fingers, breath coming up short as it happens. 

Lance reflexively squeezes him through his boxer briefs, stomach plummeting so hard it feels _sick_ with longing. Walter is so _good,_ so warm, so pliable, so perfect, visibly sensitive as he gasps a little and squirms at the touch. Lance can’t even think, can barely breathe. “Fuck,” he murmurs, fingers pushing ever so slightly into the crack of Walter’s little ass, nothing but a barrier of worn out Target cotton separating skin from skin.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Walter asks then, breath hot and salty-sweet on Lance’s parted lips. 

“Oh god. Yeah. Very much,” he admits, licking his lips. “But I also—I’ve got questions.” 

“Um, I have answers,” Walter murmurs, pushing one of his legs between Lance’s, shifting subtle closer. He sneaks a hand up the front of Lance’s shirt then, combing fingers through his chest hair, over his nipples, making them tighten up, his skin flicker into gooseflesh. It feels so fucking _good_ Lance wants to melt into his hands. But—but. He needs to _know_ things. He needs to know this will be ok, that he’ll still have Walter in his life, as his friend, no matter what happens. 

“Ok, so,” he huffs out. “What if I freak out and can’t follow through?” 

Walter shakes his head, their brows grinding together at the point at which they’re pressed flushed. “Well, we stop, we go back to being friends and roomies and co-workers. I mean… my heart is a little broken and II’ll pine a little bit, but. That's fine. That’s where I've been for the last few months, anyway.” 

Lance lets out a sigh of relief, fingers tightening, kneading Walter’s ass smoothing down as low as his thigh, touching experimentally without actually brushing against bare skin, because for some reason he’s terrified of that, doesn’t feel quite ready. Walter is touching _him_ all over though, rubbing up and down his chest and shoulders with needy palms, confident, reverent. Lance peels back to tug his shirt off, because he feels like Walter wants him to, and he’s realizing he really wants to give Walter everything he wants. 

When he settles back down beside him Walter is staring, lip in his teeth. And _fuck,_ the way he touches him, the way he _looks_ at him…it makes Lance’s heart pound, his cock thicken up stiff and eager and easy even though he came in the shower only a little while ago. He lays a tentative hand on the tuck of Walter’s waist, giving him permission to touch again, to keep exploring. Walter pitches headfirst into it, fingers spread wide, gaze hazy, _greedy._ He traces his tattoos, smoothes his fingers down the segments of muscles on his stomach, swirls up to the point of his hip, slow and luxurious, and Lance _wants him,_ he wants him so _bad_ , wants to roll him over and push inside him and—

“So, maybe this is a stupid question, but. Is there shit? Like with—with this sort of sex, how much shit is there?” 

He expects Walter to laugh at him, but he doesn’t. He just keeps touching, hands curious and hungry all at once, gaze flicking up sweet and nonjudgmental. “I mean, sometimes. That’s just a reality with anal sex. But like, if I have _warning,_ I can prepare for that sort of thing. If you need me to we can take a break and I can go take care of myself if it’s a make or break thing.” 

“Take _care_ of yourself?” Lance asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Enemas. They’re not my favorite, but I _really_ really want this so like—”

“No, no. It’s fine. I can deal, I guess I just. I wanted to know. I want to know logistical stuff because like—I’m nervous,” Lance admits, thumbing under Walter’s shirt experimentally, smoothing up to this ribcage, heart in his throat. “What if I suck at it?” he adds, realizing that’s a _huge_ part of his hang up. He’s _good_ at everything, he’s suave, he’s effortless. He _hates_ stepping into something without having any idea what he's doing. 

Walter’s tongue flicks out over his lower lip, pink and pretty. “You won’t,” he promises. “I’ll show you exactly how I like it, ok?” 

That twists up _so_ low and hot inside Lance’s gut he has to shut his eyes, has to shift closer, slotting their legs as his cock flexes in his sweats, his lips at Walter’s perspiration-damp temple. His heart goes crazy in his chest as he murmurs, “How will it fit?” 

“Mm,” Walter whines, fingers flexing where they’re spread across Lance’s abs. “What?” 

“How’s my cock going to fit in you?” he breathes into his mouth, drunk on the smell of his breath, the smell of his hair, the wild, _insanely_ perfect way they fit together. He’s thumbing over his jaw and feeling the faint scrape of stubble, and he thought this might be one of the things that pushed him away, stopped him in his tracks, but it _doesn’t._ Not at all. Lance still wants him so bad it _hurts_.

Walter’s laugh is breathless, snagging out of his too-pink lips. “Um, well. With lots of lube, and lots of patience,” he explains. 

Lance is falling apart. He’s disintegrating into fragments, a sugar-cube castle swept to nothing by the sea, and he can’t hold this back anymore, he can’t _stand it,_ so. He crushes the remaining distance into a memory and kisses him. 

Immediately, Walter groans into the press of his lips and opens up, night-blooming jasmine in the rain, something sweet and white and wet, and _fuck,_ Lance licks into him, he sucks his tongue, he presses their bodies flush, his stomach turning. “Damn,” he mumbles, rolling Walter onto his back and touching him for real, his narrow hips, his sinewy arms. He’s thin but he’s _strong,_ solid but _soft,_ so, so fucking soft Lance can hardly breath as he rubs up and down his sides beneath his shirt. “Ok,” he pants, pulling away just enough to get words out, hands spread wide enough to cover Walter’s ribcage, digging into that insanely smooth skin. “Before we get carried away, lets get to my bedroom.” 

“I have lube here,” Walter reminds him, eyes half-lidded and pupil black, hazy like he’s high and _god_ it just makes Lance want him more, seeing how compromised he is. “We’re gonna need lube.” 

“Right, ok. Fuck,” Lance hisses, cock twitching because hearing that just makes this all feel more real, more terrifying and _hot._ Mostly hot. 

_“_ Have you ever fucked a girl in the ass?” Walter asks, like he’s doing recon.

“Nope. I mean, a finger here and there, but not actual _fucking_. It’s _big,_ boy, like—it’s just not practical,” Lance explains as he cards searching fingers through Walter’s hair, looks down as him spread out under him on his guest room sheets, so fucking gorgeous it makes him dizzy. He has _no idea_ how he managed to talk himself out of realizing what this was, especially now that it feels like it’s _all_ he is. Wanting Walter Beckett under him, around him, begging for him. He’s still doubtful, though, about the logistics.Wanting it is one thing, making it happen is another. 

“Practical…that’s a matter of opinion,” Walter mumbles, gaze sweeping down to land on Lance’s tented. sweats. His hand traces the path his eyes just made, fingers hooking in elastic to pull it away from taut brown muscle so he can peer down. “It’s so—fuck. You’re so hot. You’re so _fucking_ hot,” he whines as he looks at Lance’s cock, licking his lips with a frantic, desperate sort of hunger that makes Lance’s vision white out in overwhelm. “Gonna be honest here, I’ve been thinking about you railing me since we were in that submarine together and I saw you naked. Like. You’re perfect.” 

“Ok that’s _hot,_ but also, you’re _little,”_ Lance reminds him between kisses, since he can’t really get enough of those. He loves the taste of Walter’s breath, the sloppy, needy press of his tongue. He slides his palm down again to cup and squeeze his ass. “ _This_ is little.” 

“Mmhm, but you’ve _seen_ my dildo. I can take that. I take it all the time. I—I think of you when I take it,” Walter murmurs, cheek heating up under Lance’s palm as he says it. “You just gotta open me up first. I—if that seems like too much I can do it for you. Finger myself. Or I can show you how.” 

Lance, who was sucking sharp, needy marks into the pale skin of Walter’s neck, has to pull back for a few seconds to breathe, bowled over just _hearing_ about that. Imagining it, Walter’s lube-sticky fingers pushing into his own hole, stretching him. Or better yet, _his_ fingers, dark brown against dusky pink. “I want to,” he decides, pushing a curious, searching hand under Walter’s waistband to touch smooth warm skin. “I really fucking want to.” 

“Um. Ok,” Walter mumbles, looking overwhelmed at the thought, flushed with want as he stifles a smile. “Lemme—yeah here lemme get the lube,” he mumbles, scrambling up the mattress and fumbling in his bedside drawer. Lance watches him while he does it, astounded how _nothing_ about this has freaked him out beyond the general, initial anxiety of doing something new. He’s not having a gay crisis or anything, he _wants_ this. Purely and wholly. He kisses Walter as he flops back down next to him, thumbing over the red spots on his cheeks, wondering if he’s in love with him, if it means you’re in love if you can’t be stopped by something as big as fear. 

“You gotta take these off, right?” he asks, snapping the elastic of Walter’s sweats against his hip. 

“Yeah,” Walter confirms, rolling them down over his hips, revealing his skin in increments. It’s then that Lance sees his cock for the first time, pink and cut and glistening at the tip. And Lance has never given a single ounce of thought to what might constitute as a pretty cock until this moment, but he _absolutely_ thinks Walter has a pretty cock. He stares, licking his lips, shaking his head because he's wondering what it tastes like, if he can swallow the whole thing down since it’s not very big.

“Ok so, you’ll need this,” Walter says, pushing the bottle into his palm. “Just like—get some in your hand, and coat your fingers, and spread it over me and just. I dunno. Push in. I want it really bad and m’ _so_ turned on so it should be easy.” 

Lance is not sure why it’s so fucking hot, receiving _instructions_ from Walter, his voice already thin and ragged and fucked out. He nods, squeezing a generous dollop of lube into his palm, surprised when it comes out opaque, like lotion. “Huh. I thought this stuff was clear.” 

Walter is touching his cock, curling his fist around it and jerking off in long, leisurely strokes that make Lance’s heart pick up, his mouth flood. “Yeah, most brands are, but I like this one because it looks like come,” Walter says easily. “Dunno. Seems hotter to me for some reason.” 

And _fuck,_ it’s hot for Lance, too, all his long-stored mental images of Walter fucking himself suddenly altered around this single revelation. He always imagined the dildo slicked up in translucent shine, but now he’s imagining this creamy white, Walter’s giving himself cream pies because he loves come so much and _fuck,_ he wants that, he wants to fill him up, paint his insides, _breed_ him. “It’s definitely hotter,” he admits, watching Walter roll onto his stomach, dip his back, push out his ass expectantly as he humps against the mattress in stilted, reflexive motions “Jesus. Ok. I just—touch you?” 

“Yeah, here,” Walter says, reaching for his wrist and guiding it, pulling his fingers into the soft, damp crack of his ass so Lance’s newly slick fingers bump up against his hole. _Jesus,_ as soon as it happens his stomach swoops, the muscle feeling puffy, _soft,_ not as tightly gathered as his own body. He holds his breath as he rubs the lube in with tentative fingers, making circles around Walter’s rim as he moans into his pillow, face crumpling. “Oh _fuck.”_

 _“_ Does that feel good?” Lance asks, surprised. “Just that?” 

“Yes. Feels fucking amazing, can’t believe this is happening,” Walter mumbles, hiding his face in his arm. “I dream of you touching me. I finger myself and say your name. I’m—god. _Fuck_ me Lance, _inside._ ” 

Lance curses as he does it, pushes his index finger past the initial cling until it’s sinking into that squeezing grip and _god,_ it’s so _good,_ so _hot_ inside. “Damn, boy,” he murmurs, scooting close and kissing Walter’s shoulder blade, the muted flex of soft muscle over fine bones. “God. Opened right up for me. So warm.” 

“Fuck, ” Walter whines, rolling his spine impaling himself further. Lance gets the hint and pushes deep, sinking down past his second knuckle before he pulls it out, pumping back in rhythmically, marveling at the ease. There’s resistance, more than a pussy, but it’s still so _easy,_ to fuck into that sweet clench. “You like it?” Walter asks, peeking up over the curve of his bicep. “You got quiet.” 

“You—I fucking love it,” Lance admits, pushing another finger in alongside the first, obsessed with the way Walter whines and accepts it, mouth open and wet against the ditch of his own elbow. He looks so fucking _pretty,_ that pink ring hugging Lance’s brown fingers, the slope of his back, the plump swell of his cheeks, paler than the rest of him, lightly furred in blonde hair. Lance feels like he might come just _watching,_ come before he even gets his cock out, just _imagining_ what it might feel like to fuck him. “You’re _so_ crazy pretty,” he says then, licking his lips, half-shocked because he somehow, stupidly thought that word really only applied to women. Walter clearly likes it, though, cheeks flushing, smile showing off his crooked tooth. Lance dips in and licks it because _god,_ he even likes Walter’s _teeth,_ he thinks every bit of him is perfect, so pretty, _goddamned_ beautiful. 

He withdraws, thumbs Walter’s crack open wider because he wants to _see,_ wants to watch that greedy pink hole swallowing his fingers up, sucking him down. “Goddamn, you’re really fucking me up,” he admits, crooking his fingers into the slick, muscular wall, feeling him out experimentally, loving the way he twists and gasps and fucks back against the pressure. “I’m so—I want you so _bad,_ think you’re so perfect.” 

“God, you can _have me,_ m’yours,” Walter groans, spine arching, cheeks undulating as he bucks against Lance’s fingers hungrily. “Put another one in me. Get more lube. M’close to being able to take you, feel it—feel me loosening up?” 

“Yeah,” Lance marvels, because he _can._ Walter’s hole keeps fluttering and slackening around him, holding his fingers as he fucks them in and out instead of squeezing them tight. He eases a third in, amazed just by _this,_ that he can stretch so easily, open up so _much._ There’s already so much lube it’s making squelching noises as he pushes in, but Walter asked for more so he uses his free hand to squeeze another dollop down into the spread-wide crease of his ass. “That good?” 

“Uh huh. You can—you can make me really wet,” Walter mumbles, rubbing his red cheek into the pillow, propping his hips up enough to get a hand under his body to presumably play with his cock, and _fuck,_ that makes Lance’s stomach drop, knowing how much he’s getting off on this, knowing how good it feels to have Lance’s fingers inside him. He realizes, more than anything, he really, _really_ wants Walter to feel good. “Oh _fuck,_ s’perfect,” he whines, face crumpling, eyes scrunched shut. “I’m—you can fuck me. I need it. Need your cock in me,” he begs, eyes shut tight, hole pulsing around Lance’s knuckles in time with his heartbeat.

“Yeah baby?” Lance says without even _thinking_ about it, without even wondering if that’s an ok thing to call Walter. He whimpers and gasps at it though, twisting on the bed, so he Lance supposes he struck gold. “Should you roll over?” 

“Nah, it’ll be easier on my stomach,” Walter mumbles. “Also, grab a condom from the bedside table, there should be a bunch.” 

“But what if I want to kiss you? And come in you?” Lance asks, pulling his fingers out, wiping them on his own sweats before he tugs them off, tossing them off the bed as he arranges himself and takes his cock in hand. He’s _so hard_ it aches, practically dripping onto the sheets between his spread thighs. Walter _stares,_ makes a high, reflexive sound in his throat as he licks his lips. 

“Ok, fine, you—yeah. We can do that eventually but we should _start_ like this. And the condom will help with sliding in at first and friction and stuff. Plus it’s less messy? You can take it off before you finish to come in me if you want and you’re clean. You’re clean, right? I’m assuming.” 

Lance kisses the dip in Walter’s sweat-dewy back before grabbing a condom, tearing it open with his teeth. “Yeah, squeaky clean,” he promises. He's about to unroll the condom onto his dick when Walter makes a little impatient noise.

“Wait, before you put that on, will you let me suck your cock a little, before? I—I’ve wanted to taste it just as bad as I wanted you to fuck me with it.” 

“ _Goddamn,_ Boy, you’re gonna kill me, gonna kill me fucking dead,” Lance curses, walking up on his knees so his cock is level with Walter’s needy pink mouth. It’s so _wet_ looking, so eager. “You can suck it. Jesus.” 

Walter whines gratefully, curling his fingers around the shaft and guiding it towards his lips, which he fits around the crown to suckle in hot, hungry pulses so nervy Lance nearly pitches forward, losing his balance as he's lost to sensation. He steadies himself with a palm on Walter’s back, which he then rubs down to his ass again, teasing his hole as he gently, carefully thrusts into the slick heat of his mouth. “ _Dammit_ you’re good at that. I’m usually an endurance man,” he admits, sinking a finger in, crooking it down so Walter whimpers around his mouthful, back arching. “But today…m’not so sure.”

“Same, I feel like I've been close his whole time,” Walter mumbles as he pulls off, licking little swirls at the slit before swallowing him back down, eyes wide and blue and hazy-hot as he stares up at Lance. That eye-contact is so fucking searing Lance has to shut his eyes, fingering Walter with one hand while he scrubs the other through the wreck of his hair, pushing him down, pulling him up, fucking his mouth because he can _tell_ that’s exactly what Walter wants him to do. His vision is lost to the raw burn of pleasure and static for a few moments until Walter pulls off in a mess of frothy spit, gasping. “Fuck me, _fuck me,_ please,” he begs, pushing himself sluttily onto Lance’s fingers, mouth a desperate pink hole as he gasps. “Need it.” 

“Ok, fuck, you got it,” Lance mumbles, rolling the condom down his cock in preparation as Walter shoves a pillow under his hips to prop himself up. Lance straddles him, palming open his lube-slick ass, thumbing over that pink, puffy little hole. It’s winking, fluttering, but it still looks so _small_ , too tight for this to work. “Baby—s’not gonna fit,” he says, shaking his head because there’s just…there’s no way. Walter is too narrow, too slight, fits between the splay of Lance’s thighs too easy. Plus, he wants him _too bad._ He’s gonna rip him apart, split him in two with his want. 

Walter laughs frantically into his pillow, pushing his ass up into the air, hiking himself up so he can spread his legs, knees drawn up to his chest so he’s split like a wishbone, so fucking _ready,_ so pretty. “Yes it will, trust me. Just start slow. Once you get the tip in you’re fine.” 

Lance is skeptical but does as he’s told, taking his cock in hand and rubbing it up and down the Walter’s slick crack, the tip nudging past his hole, teasing it. He’s entranced just by the _sight_ of this for a few seconds, brown against pink, everything shining with pearly white lube like come. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he tells Walter, fingers curled tight around his shaft as he lines himself up, pushes forward experimentally and without enough pressure to actually breach him. “You gonna tell me if I hurt you, right? I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’ll tell you. I’ll— _oh god,”_ Walter yelps as Lance shifts his weight again, the broad crown _finally_ sliding in with a single, surprising motion. It _does_ go in easier than Lance thought, pops right past the ring of muscle, holding Walter open, stretched wide and gorgeous. Lance holds his cheeks apart with his thumb and stares, stunned. 

“Good? You ok?” 

“Perfect. Give me more, please,” Walter gasps into his pillow, voice ragged. He moans low and long as Lance slides in another inch or so, _gasping_ at the heat, the tightness. 

“Oh my _god,_ baby, you feel like heaven,” he chokes out, sounding breathy with overwhelmed laughter. He can’t _believe_ he’s been living without this, that he could have had Walter like this all the time, on his stomach with his thighs parted and his pretty pink hole milking his cock. “Like nothing I've ever felt. So good.” 

“ _You_ feel good, _so_ good, so fucking perfect,” Walter keens, backing up, rocking to meet Lance’s slow, careful push. In seconds he bottoms out, balls pressed up flush against Water’s ass, his whole cock buried in him so goddamned deep it feels like he’s been swallowed by fire. And just like that, he’s in. “Oh _god,_ you fill me up, I feel so _full,”_ Walter mumbles into his arm, reaching around with his other hand to grab Lance’s wrist. “You’re making my cock drip, feel.” 

And then, he’s moving Lance’s hand to the front of him, helping him fit his fingers around his precum-sticky shaft and Lance supposes it’s _better_ that it happens this way, because he wasn’t sure he was brave enough to touch Walter there himself. His stomach plummets as he does it though, loving the slick mess, the shift of soft over hard, the delicate skin and blood heavy weight of him. He holds his breath as he feels Walter out, face pressed into the ditch between his shoulder blades, until he feels dizzy and has to inhale from his skin. Walter’s so much _smaller_ than him, more slender, so much so he can cover his whole cock with his hand and he's not sure why but that makes him feel _crazy,_ but it does,a filthy heat building in his stomach as his own cock pulses inside Walter. “Goddamn,” he mumbles, jacking him off experimentally, rubbing his thumb through the wetness collected at the tip, wondering how salty it tastes. “Love your cock in my hand, baby. Love this. Love how you feel.” 

He says it because it’s true, but also because he wants to hear himself _say_ it, wants to confess and bear witness to every piece of this astounding reality. He’s so _sick_ of hiding. He wants to tread neck deep before he’s pulled under by the riptide. 

“Yeah?” Walter asks, cock twitching in Lance’s palm as he thrusts against it in stilted, grinding bucks. It’s creating friction along Lance’s shaft, and he withdraws a little, the arm he’s using to keep himself up quaking at the exertion. “God, you can move, you know. You can fuck me,” Walter begs, hollowing out his spine. “Please.” 

Lance’s heart leaps up into his throat and he kisses the back of Walter’s neck where he’s flushed, licks up his sweat, starts to pump into him slow and sweet and careful, still not quite believing he’s _inside_ , every inch. He lets go of his cock to cup his hip instead, steadying himself, finding a rhythm. “That ok?” he asks, voice ragged, muffled by skin. 

“Yeah, _so_ good, so— _oh,_ Lance, please. More.” 

Lance picks up the pace, hips pumping, sweat collecting on the muscles of his back, between his pecs and dripping down onto Walter’s spine as he drives him into the mattress. It feels _so_ good he can hardly believe it, mouth open and panting, drunk on the little staccato moans he’s punching out of Walter. “Love how much sound you make,” he admits, sinking in and circling his hips while he’s buried, deep-dicking him because Walter gets _especially_ loud when he does that, wailing into his arm. “Love that you know what you like. What you want.”

“Want you,” Walter slurs, arching his back and rocking back in time with Lance’s increasingly punishing thrusts. “Want your cock in me all the time. Love it, love you,” he mumbles, and whether or not he actually means it, the confession turns Lance’s stomach in longing, makes him moan against Walter’s shoulder, opening his mouth, biting, sucking his salty-soft skin. It scares him that it _doesn’t_ scare him, that none of this scares him, that he just wants _more,_ wants everything. 

“You’re all mine, aren’t you?” he huffs out, peeling back enough to spread a big palm over the back of Walter’s neck and hold him down, stabilizing himself so he can _really_ fuck him in earnest, hips snapping so hard he bed is rocking, the mattress groaning alongside Walter. “Mine this whole time. Imagining my cock in you, stretching you open. Did you think about me at night? Did you wish I’d come into your room and touch you?” 

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Walter sobs, the bend in his back so fucking filthy-deep, little ass cheeks undulating lewdly with each slap of Lance’s hips. “Thought about you—wished you'd walk in on me when I fucked myself. Imagined you pulling my dildo out do you could push in, imagined you telling me how much better your cock was. Knew it was better—knew— _uunh,_ fuck, _fuck,”_ he whines, humping the pillow under his hips, rubbing his cock into it just as Lance withdraws almost all the way, keeping him open and stretched wide just on the tip. “You still want me on my back?” 

“ _Yeah_ I do, want to kiss you, want to fuck that pretty mouth with my tongue,” Lance tells him, pulling out, manhandling Walter onto his back easily. _God,_ he looks so beautiful all spread out, nipples raw and pink and puffy from being relentlessly ground into the sheets, eyes hazy and dark with want. Lance curses, tenderly cupping his face between his palms and kissing him deep, worrying his hair between his fingers, their cocks rubbing together between their bodies. “Mine, my _boy,”_ he whispers into the slick, swollen slide of Walter’s lips, hands all over him, needy and wild. _Love you, love every inch of you, have loved you this whole time,_ he realizes as he holds him tight and sucks his tongue, folding him in half so his knees are bent over his shoulders. “What did you even _do_ to me?” 

“Promise no secret formulas were involved, just my feminine wiles,” Walter jokes, grinning haphazardly as he writhes on the bed, hands all over Lance’s sweat-slick shoulders. “M’ _dying,_ need your cock in me again, _please,”_ he begs. “Hate being empty.” 

“Got you, baby,” Lance mumbles, reaching down and thumbing over his puffy, winking hole. “You said I could fuck you bare, yeah?” 

“Oh _fuck,_ yeah, you—if you want to,” Walter keens, rubbing his skull into the pillow, head lolling back and forth. “I want your come inside me so bad. Want to be overflowing.” 

“God, yeah, lemme come in you, baby, lemme breed that hole,” Lance begs, totally beside himself, shaking all over as he rolls the condom off his cock, turning it inside out. He tosses it aside, noticing the barely there traces of shit clinging to the silicone, not at all enough to deter him in the slightest. He wants all of Walter so _bad,_ his dirt, his mess, his reality. He lines himself up, cockhead already sinking in to his stretched rim so easy. “Oh _fuck,_ baby, so hot inside,” he marvels as he sinks home again, arranging Walter under him, curling his arms tight around his thighs to hold him in place, abs flexing as he holds himself up enough to kiss him wet, sloppy, rough. He swallows Walter’s moans, mouth _full_ of them. 

Lance gives it to him as good as he knows how. He alternates between deep, steady thrusts to stave off his orgasm, and savage, staccato bucks, all the while encouraged by the way Walter is moaning, fisting in the sheets, cock dripping all over his pale, heaving stomach until he curls his fist around it and starts to tug. “M-m’gonna come soon,” he whimpers against Lance’s neck, voice a hoarse wreck. “That ok? If I come?” 

“Yes, _fuck_ yeah baby, come on my cock, let me fuck that come right out of you,” Lance begs, turning his head to kiss Walter breathless, pushing his tongue into his mouth to mimic the rhythm of his thrusts. “Wanna feel it, need it, need you,” he chokes out, and that must be enough to push Walter over the edge because in seconds he’s crying out, arching his spine up off the bed and coming in hot, sudden ribbons all over his chest, the prettiest fucking thing Lance has ever seen in his entire life. 

His hole spasms wildly the whole time, pulsing vice-tight and forcing Lance to follow him, orgasm hitting him like a freight train, snagging a gasp out, static eclipsing his as he empties himself into the hungry, clutching burn of Walter’s ass. “Jesus _christ,”_ Lance wheezes, trembling, feeling like he’s still coming even though he’s technically not shooting off anymore. Walter milked him dry, wrung him out, and all he can do is crumble on top of him, rolling him over in the process so he doesn't crush him under his weight. 

They lie there like that for a long time, tangled up on their sides, Lance’s cock still half-hard inside Walter, who is _still_ pulsing, _still_ so tight, like he doesn't want Lance to slide out. Once Lance catches his breath, he kisses Walter everywhere he can reach. His fluttering pulse, his swollen, panting lips. His hairline, his freckles, the jut of his chin. The corner of his mouth which is quirked up into a satisfied smile. “You taste so good,” Lance murmurs, thumbing up and down his jawline sweetly. “Could kiss you forever.” 

“You can kiss me until you get tired of kissing me,” Walter mumbles, tracing idly over his tattoo before looking up at him with bright, curious eyes. Lance doesn't know how to tell him he’s not gonna get tired of it, so he says nothing, just pets his hair, his soft skin until Walter lets out a long exhale and asks, “You liked it?” 

Lance makes an incredulous face, digs his thumb into the sweaty little hollow under Walter’s clavicle. There’s a mole there he’s only just noticed, and he can tell he’s gonna be obsessed with it, that he’s gonna want to kiss it every fucking morning. “Kid. What do you _think?”_

Walter smiles, ducking his gaze down like he doesn’t want Lance to see him so broken open, so elated. “Tell me? I wanna hear you say it.” 

Lance smiles, rubs over his eyebrow, making the hair go the wrong way before smoothing it down and pressing a kiss there. He’s honestly amazed by how natural this feels, how _right._ How much of a natural progression it is given the already protective, endeared way he regards Walter, and he guesses this was _supposed_ to happen. That he was supposed to end up in his arms. “I fucking loved it,” he admits, voice low, quiet, honest. “More than I could have ever imagined, you’re—you’re so—“ he stops himself, because every word he can think of that fits ( _perfect, gorgeous, delicious, all mine)_ feels too huge to say now that they've both come. He cups his face with a palm instead, rubs the violent spot of color on his cheekbone and settles on, “I dunno. I've been missing out.” 

Walter’s grin widens, hectic and kissable. “I was, too.” 

Lance pets his hair, licks into his smile, touches him all over. “M’still inside of you,” he murmurs eventually, remembering because everything is starting to feel sticky and wet in a distracting way now. 

“Yeah,” Walter says dreamily. “Don’t really want you to pull out, but I guess you probably want another shower, huh?” 

“Only if you come with me. I’ve thought _too_ much about what you look like in the shower to be denied the real thing anymore, boy. So, we both go.” 

“You want to _shower_ with me?” Walter asks, sounding delighted. 

“That’s what I said. I want to sleep with you too, you have no fucking idea how exhausted I am from my flight _and_ pounding you into the mattress. You wore me out, baby,” he mumbles, trying the pet name out for the first time outside of sex. Walter beams at it, cheeks pink, eyes so bright he can very nearly see himself reflecting in their glistening shine. 

“I’d _love_ to sleep with you,” Walter says then, spreading his palm on Lance’s chest over the thud of his heart where something alive is flickering, a strange, _young_ sort of joy. He can’t remember the last time he was so purely excited about something so simple, so pure. _Good. Sleep with me tonight and every night after,_ he thinks. 

But he doesn’t say it aloud, he doesn't say anything because he’s too busy wincing his way through withdrawing from Walter’s ass, swallowing his whimpers and groans as he empties him out in a single, fluid motion. “God,” he mumbles into his mouth, feeling his swollen, fucked out hole with curious fingers, sliding them back in with a dirty squelch to feel the mess he left there, so much come and lube all over Walter’s thighs, his balls. “Beautiful boy.” 

Walter blushes. “I dunno why, but it blows my mind to think of _you_ finding me attractive. You’re like a model.You were _famous_ at the agency, everyone wanted to marry you and now—I dunno.” He reaches down, tenderly cups Lance’s spent, sticky cock, making him shudder with oversensitivity. “I _fantasized_ about this, so much. Hated myself for wanting something so impossible, and here you are. Calling _me_ beautiful.” 

Lance shrugs, because he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn't know how to tell Walter how bad he wants him, how serious this feels, how long it’s been building inside him, like snow after weeks and weeks of storm. “Not impossible, clearly,” he says eventually, hauling himself off the bed even though letting go of Walter is the last fucking thing he wants to do. He holds out his hand, helps Walter rise unsteadily to his feet, eyes all over him. Slender legs, pale skin, soft pink cock nestled in red-brown curls. Nothing Lance has ever consciously wanted in the past, but _everything_ he wants now. And that—that knowledge is enough for him. “C’mon,” he says, slinging an arm over his sweat-sticky shoulder and pulling him flush against his side. “Let’s go _actually_ contaminate the shower.” 

And together they stumble down the hall, into something new. 


End file.
